


Don't Speak (I Know What You're Thinking)

by chickenlivesinpumpkin



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Come Marking, Crossdressing, Incest, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-10
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-29 20:28:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3909520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chickenlivesinpumpkin/pseuds/chickenlivesinpumpkin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As long as they don't talk about it, they can keep going.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Speak (I Know What You're Thinking)

**Author's Note:**

> 1.Title comes from the No Doubt song.  
> 2\. Inspired by Dean's surprising confession in S5, Ep 4: The End, although there aren't any spoilers. Takes place sometime late in the first season.

“Guh,” Sam says.

“Um,” Dean says. His tongue feels slow and stupid in his mouth. He can already feel the lava-red heat in his cheeks and ears from the humiliation, and he seems to be sort of frozen in place. He casts his eyes wildly around the room, as if the motel’s walls might somehow grant him an explanation that could get him out of this. Something that could magically make Sam go _ok, sure, that makes sense, go about your business._ But no answers are forthcoming, not from the cheap laminate paneling or the sailboat art that a fourth grader could’ve painted or even the butt-ugly plastic starburst-looking clock hanging up across from the beds. No, Dean’s on his own, which means that he says, “Uh, this isn’t what it looks like?”

Sam doesn’t say anything to that, a fact for which Dean is stupidly grateful, not only because there’s really nothing else this could be besides what it looks like, but also because not talking about things means that they’re okay. There’s a long tradition of Winchesters not talking about things, going back at least two generations (that they know of), and Sam and Dean have taken to this family custom with alacrity. There are loads of things they don’t talk about, and generally? They’re awesomely okay as long at that continues, so Sam’s silence is a good omen. It means they’ll get past this too.

But then, like the damn Energizer bunny, the silence keeps going and going. Past awkward into uncomfortable. And Dean’s dying by degrees because he can’t seem to do anything else but stand here and Sam’s just…staring.

“Those are…” Sam finally whispers. “Uh…ruffles?”

“Shut up,” Dean says. He’s all for ending this ridiculous little experiment right now and getting blind drunk, but he still can’t move. He keeps shivering, but he can't pretend he's cold because it's, like, a million degrees in here. Or maybe that's just how it feels since his face is on fire. Hell with it. He'll say he's cold. Sam will buy it, seeing as ninety-five percent of Dean's skin is currently on display. All of him, really, except for that…um, area.

“Pink,” Sam mumbles.

“Cold in here, dumbass,” Dean says, and who cares that it doesn't really make sense as far as replies go? It’s meant to be bravado, like real men wear this stuff all the time and Sam is clearly a victim of ancient masculine stereotypes or something, and this is actually gender something-or-other, freedom, maybe, and Dean is just really fucking forward thinking and Sam can go climb a mountain if he disagrees. Unfortunately, that isn’t how it comes out. It comes out small and trapped and he’s so fucked because there’s no way he’s getting out of this one alive.

The thing is, he’s been trying to convince himself that he’ll say no the next time something gets started between them, that he’ll do the right thing by his brother. It can’t be good for Sam, having this pressure constantly in the air tripping them up, and Dean has decided that no matter how much he might want otherwise, when the next time rolls around, he’ll give Sam the easy let-down. The problem is, he can't tell if this is the next time or if it's the time when Sam finally kicks him loose, so all he can do is huddle here, embarrassed and unsure and really fucking frozen because he isn’t sure whether Sam is going to walk forward or walk out and he doesn’t know which one to hope for anyway.

“Panties,” Sam finishes, sounding strangled.

If Dean’s erection would go away, that would really help him out right about now.

*

Sam’s brain is his one claim to greatness, generally speaking. In pretty much every other way, Dean makes him look like a distant runner up. Getting girls, throwing down in a fight, his liquor tolerance, and especially in his appetite for burgers and pie for damn sure. And while his brother is smart—far smarter than he gives himself credit for being—Sam is the clear winner when it comes to research and planning and logical thinking.

So it would be nice if his brain could get back to working sometime soon. Unfortunately, that doesn’t seem likely to happen, because he’s pretty much stuck on stupid at the moment. His fingers are still locked around the motel key fob (and he’ll likely have an imprint of _Room 42_ permanently etched into his palm by the time he figures out how to let it go), and his mouth is hanging open.

But who the fuck could blame him?

Dean’s wearing pink frilly panties and absolutely nothing else.

And Sam can barely breathe, let alone think. All he can do is stare.

Dean’s always been lovely in Sam’s eyes, and yeah, that’s a word that Dean would hate, but _lovely_ is exactly how Sam thinks of him. There’s something delicately feminine about his brother’s features, something that makes _handsome_ the wrong descriptor. That ‘lovely’ element has always been offset by the fact that Dean’s gender is crystal clear if you’re looking at his shoulders, belly, or legs, because they’re corded with lean muscle, good-sized and masculine, but all the same, there’s something just a little bit…pretty about him.

And just now his loveliness is bordering on downright gorgeous. His cheeks are bright red with mortification, his eyes are wide and round and pleading, his soft, pink lips trembling faintly and everything about him looks helpless and shocked and yes, lovely. His hands are clutched together so tightly that his knuckles have turned white, and they’re hovering in front of his groin as if there’s any possible way they could hide what’s going on.

Maybe Sam can’t see much right now, but he’d gotten an eyeful when he first walked in, before Dean had registered what the sound of the door opening had meant, that Sam was back an hour or so earlier than either of them had expected due to a forgotten wallet. That eyeful had been enough to tell Sam everything he needed to know.

In those few perfect seconds, Sam had seen that the pink panties sitting snugly on Dean’s hips were stretched to their limit trying to contain a prominent bulge and failing miserably, because the head of his cock was just barely visible, peeking out at the top. Those same panties cupped Dean’s firm ass almost lovingly, and the little black bow beneath his navel and the matching piping decorating the ruffles at the waistband and leg openings were saucy enough that they took the panties from innocent to blisteringly sexy.

Then Dean had glanced over, horror coloring his expression, and thrust his hands in front of his groin as if the image of him wasn’t already permanently seared into Sam’s brain.

He wants to ask Dean to move his hands away, but his mouth still isn’t working, and besides, words aren’t going to get this done, not to Sam’s satisfaction, anyway. Come morning, this will be like the previous instances of…whatever they’ve been doing. Relegated to the list of Things They Don’t Talk About, so if Sam wants this one to stick, to become something more, he’s going to have to make his point a little more strongly.

Time to be direct.

*

There’d been that night almost a year ago, not long after the Wendigo job, when that vampire had thrown him into a half-full oil drum and Dean had given Sam’s cramping, bruised thigh a brutal rub-down back at the motel to ease the ache. It had been painful as hell in the beginning, but as the muscle began to relax, Sam’s thoughts had strayed, and he’d quickly gotten hard in his boxer-briefs. Dean had pretended not to notice for a long time, grim-faced and focused on making sure Sam was in one piece, but once the cramp had completely backed off, his touch had slowly transformed from rough and businesslike to soothing and tentative.

It had gone on for what had felt like hours, and Sam had tried desperately to stay still and quiet, but eventually he’d simply lost the will. When Dean’s right hand had drifted to his inner thigh, and the edge of his thumb had ever so slightly wandered under the leg of Sam’s underwear, Sam had accidentally let loose a soft moan of need. Dean had snatched his hands away immediately. In fact, he’d nearly broken his neck in his hurry to turn on the tv and settle on the opposite bed.

Neither of them had said anything, even when Sam had gotten up and gone into the bathroom for a very long shower and jerk-off session. Dean had to have known what he was doing, but they didn’t mention that, either.

Then, a few months later, Sam had walked in on Dean jerking off to lesbians making out and fingering each other in some bootlegged Casa Erotica video. It wasn’t the first time Sam had walked in on Dean doing stuff—they’d spent most their lives living in each others' pockets in tiny rooms where privacy was almost nonexistent. If they hadn’t been willing to get caught now and again, they both would’ve expired of backed-up libido years ago—but it was the first time he hadn’t instantly ducked out to get a beer or something while Dean finished up.

No, he’d stood there gawping, his mind helpfully (well, that depended on the point of view, didn’t it?) reminding him of the night when Dean had almost, nearly, practically reached under his underwear to touch him, and all thought of leaving had abruptly vanished. He’d gone to sit silently on the other bed and opened his jeans as if there was nothing at all strange about two related men doing this at the same time in the same room.

He’d tuned out the manufactured groans of the women on the screen. Instead, he’d kept his ears alert for the sounds that Dean was making; the quiet puffs of breath, the faintest squeak of the bed springs as he shifted his weight nervously, the squelching of his precome as he hesitantly resumed stroking himself when Sam didn’t say anything or try to touch him, when Sam only took his own cock in hand and went to work.

Sam had drawn it out as long as he could, but the moment was so alive and thick with tension and possibility that he’d been close almost from the time he’d sat down.

He’d looked over at the last moment, saw Dean with his head tipped back, eyes slitted barely open so he could still see the tv, all his weight leaning back on his left arm, his hips giving small, pulsing thrusts, his right fist locked around the leaking head of his cock, and it was that image that pushed Sam over. He moaned—he couldn’t help it. Dean had glanced over in surprise, hand stumbling a bit in rhythm as if he’d forgotten Sam was there, or, more likely, as if it hadn’t occurred to him that Sam would be looking at him instead of the women. For a heartbeat he hesitated, staring at Sam as if hoping for some clue as to what was expected of him. Then he turned his face away, hiding his expression, and his hand picked up speed again. It was only another minute before Dean came too.

But they still hadn’t talked about it.

And then the last time, just a few months ago, at a bar in Salida after wrapping up a case. They’d been drinking—Sam beer, Dean slamming down shots—and bitching about the local law enforcement, who were far more inept than the law enforcement pretty much anywhere else, which was saying something. Dean had gotten up to put money in the juke, and Sam’s mildly inebriated mind had taken a while to realize that he hadn’t come back.

He’d gone looking, bathrooms first, then the back room where the pool tables were, and when those didn’t pan out, he’d checked the alley. He’d stepped outside, walking quietly in case there was a problem, and he was right to be careful, because right around the corner he found trouble. Hell, yeah, he’d found trouble. Dean was leaning against the brick wall of the bar, jeans open around his thighs while some chick went to town slurping on his dick with the messy technique of the drunk but enthusiastic.

For a frightening moment, Sam wanted to hurt her.

Dean’s green eyes snapped to his, and Sam felt as though he were standing on a precipice, balanced on top of something fragile and so very dangerous, and he’d known that this one could very well break them. They’d had excuses for the last two incidents—shitty excuses that neither of them believed, but excuses all the same. This couldn’t be explained away by medically-justified massaging or women in porn, though. This, this was something else. This was Sam wanting to suck his brother’s cock. Sam wanting to lay a claim. This was Sam making a choice, and Dean knowing what that choice was.

Sam had slowly moved one hand to his belt and Dean’s gaze had followed the movement helplessly. He’d swallowed hard when Sam pulled his own fly open, when his hand dipped inside. He’d given a rough groan when Sam tugged his already-half-hard cock out into the night air and begun to stroke. Dean had buried his hands in the girl’s hair as he watched Sam work his own erection with a loose grip, and Sam had stared back, equally affected by the sight of his brother lost in pleasure—cheeks beautifully flushed, eyes glittering with need, mouth open and panting, his hips juddering slightly, expression torn between _shouldn’t_ and _please._

They’d come at nearly the same time.

*

And now they’re here, together, all of their silent interludes hanging in the air between them.

They both know that it’s wrong. Sam feels a little lost and confused and dirty in a not-good way whenever it happens, although the feelings have never been as strong as he would’ve expected. It’s clear that Dean’s not nearly as okay with it because the days following each incident are awkward as fuck and Dean can’t look at him. Eventually they get past the weirdness and carry on, but as much as Sam sometimes wishes they could clear the air, he doesn’t dare even breathe in the direction of that conversation. Some words can’t be separated from others, and while he might start out just explaining why they might be able to make it work, sooner or later the talk will move on to the filthiest of filthy words: _incest._

And that’s a word that Dean won’t be able to forget.

The only reason they’ve been able to get this far is that they don’t talk about it. It’s not like they need to—they’ve mastered the art of the non-verbal argument anyway, so Sam will know exactly what’s going on Dean’s head even if Dean never opens his mouth again. Dean feels like it’s his responsibility to say no, to protect Sam from Dean’s perversion, that Dean is disgusting and unforgivable. And Sam doesn’t have to tell Dean what he’s thinking either: that if Dean is perverted, Sam is far worse, because he cares less and less about the wrongness each time. Sam’s starting to think that there can’t possibly be anyone else for either of them. Worse, he’s swiftly getting to the point where the conflict in Dean’s face and the fear of his reaction won’t stop Sam from reaching out and taking.

If they talk, they’ll have to acknowledge the drawbacks and consequences. It’ll shine a light on their sordid little mess, and that’s the one thing Dean won’t be able to move past. If they talk about it, they’ll have to stop, and Sam doesn’t think he can.

Staring at his horrified, humiliated brother standing in the middle of the motel room, watching Dean try not to cringe while he hides behind his hands, lovely and vulnerable and so unexpectedly hot in those pink panties, Sam knows for sure that stopping is not on the agenda. Tonight, finally, he’s going to touch.

And he doesn’t need to ask to know that Dean will let him.

After all, Dean's still hard.

*

Dean doesn’t know what to say as Sam slowly sets his key on the table and walks towards him. He doesn’t know why he’s even still standing there; he should’ve made a run for the bathroom, or hell, grabbed one of the blankets from the bed. Fuck, even yanking the panties down and off so he can step back into his jeans would be one-up on standing here waiting for Sam to laugh.

But his muscles won’t respond. What the hell kind of hunter is he? Stared down every manner of beast the world has to offer--and a few that came courtesy of hell itself, thank you very much--but he's so nervous at the thought of his little brother seeing him like this that he's useless as an unloaded sawed-off.

“They’re, um, good,” Sam says. Dean feels himself flushing even more deeply. Jee-zus. “Did you…where did you…uh, get these?”

Dean pretends that the orange and blue shag carpet is the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen. He doesn’t think he could take it if Sam were to look at him with disgust; hell, Dean’s sort of disgusted by himself at this moment.

“Bought ‘em a couple towns back,” he says in a low voice. “Said they were a gift for my girlfriend.”

“They suit you,” Sam says, and Dean jerks his eyes up to search Sam’s face for mockery. There’s none that he can find, though, only raw appreciation. Sam looks older when he’s turned on, Dean’s noticed by now, his expression taking on a stern cast. He looks almost angry when he starts to get close to orgasm, and Dean’s begun to like it. Crave it, even. He shouldn’t, but something about the power and age in that otherwise innocent face really gets his blood pounding.

Seems like everything about Sam gets his blood pounding, these days.

While Dean waits for the punch line, he watches Sam edge closer. Sam’s almost right in front of him, in fact, all broad shoulders, long legs, and strong arms, as rangy and confident in his skin as a panther or a lion. He’s looking Dean over, slow and thorough, and Dean has to drop his eyes again. There’s too much weight in Sam’s gaze and he can’t take it. Damn Rhonda Hurley. This is all her fault. He’d only meant to see if his memory of that first, surprisingly hot time with her held up, and now here he is, standing here humiliated in fucking pink panties. This is his worst nightmare, and he knows it can only get worse. Even if Sam doesn’t seem disgusted by him now, that doesn’t mean he won’t be when he realizes that Dean is hard.

Sam’s fingers close around Dean’s wrists and Dean lets out a murmur of protest. It sounds more like a moan, actually, but it doesn’t matter because either way, Sam doesn’t stop. Instead, he just forces Dean’s resistant hands away from his groin, revealing the panties—and Dean’s erection—to Sam’s eyes.

Dean closes his own eyes, turning his face away, waiting for scorn or laughter. He could probably survive if it was to come from anyone else, but just the idea of Sammy reacting that way is enough to make his arousal start to flag. He can’t take the perusal, can’t bear the idea of being seen clearly and rejected anyway. He starts to twist to one side, repeating that same soft sound of protest a second time.

“Ssh, no, Dean,” Sam says hoarsely. “No, you’re beautiful. Christ, you look good like this.”

Dean shudders, warmed a little by those words despite his certainty that this whole thing is a clusterfuck in the making. Sam’s still murmuring things, things that are going right from Dean’s ears to his cock, and warming every inch of him on the way. Things like, _Let me see you, Dean, you’re so perfect like this, look at you, you barely fit into them, and they look so pretty on you. You’re so pretty, so good, standing here for me so I can look._

Dean lets his hands go limp and Sam releases him so that they fall to his sides entirely. Relief makes his knees weak, or rather relief combined with something else that he can’t examine too closely at the moment, but there’s barely time to recover because Sam’s reaching out. He’s reaching out with a single finger extended, and then that finger is tracing lightly up the bulge of Dean’s cock and Dean’s crying out.

Sam startles slightly at the response, lifting eyes that have gone wide with shock and wonder, and Dean’s chest is heaving although the air he’s taking in isn’t doing much to stop this light-headed feeling. Then Sam licks his lips and his eyebrows lower and his eyes darken. He watches Dean’s face this time, watches him with an intent, almost aggressive demeanor as he touches Dean again.

Dean manages to keep his mouth shut this time, because he’s not a fucking girl or a virgin, and he’ll be damned if he’s going to embarrass himself any more than he already has, but the touch makes everything in him light right up, heat sinking into his belly and bones, and holding that whimper back takes almost superhuman strength.

He manages it though, because Dean Winchester is not weak, at least not until Sam steps even closer and bends down to put his mouth next to Dean’s ear. “Let me hear you,” he says, the sentence hot and potent against the sensitive skin there. “Don’t hide from me. I need all of you, Dean.”

When Sam cups his waist and slowly, carefully, maneuvers Dean backwards until his knees hit the bed, Dean goes without complaint, without thought. He doesn’t protest when Sam pushes him gently further onto the mattress, and he doesn’t protest when one of Sam’s big hands lands right on the dip between his pectoral muscles and presses him firmly onto his back.

He sure as fuck doesn’t protest when that hand finds its way down to his cock once more. Sam strokes lightly with just a few fingers along the shaft, making the satiny fabric slide the tiniest bit along his skin, and the sensation is almost overwhelming.

“So pretty,” Sam whispers, staring once more at what he’s doing, his palm running along the length of Dean’s erection. “Fuck, I like this. I want this.”

Dean abruptly _feels_ pretty, which he supposes is the whole point of the exercise, and for the first time since he tugged the panties out of his bag and started to slip them on, he doesn’t have the sickening ball of _what-am-I-doing_ dragging him down. He feels free. Grateful to Sam, too, for letting him be this without judgment. He finds that his hips are lifting into the touch and doesn’t try to stop.

“Yeah, baby, let go,” Sam breathes, and the endearment plus the reassurance is working really nicely, making Dean flush from tip to toe with heat. Part of him, a dark, small part of him wants to rear up and remind Dean of everything that makes this wrong, and it has absolutely nothing to do with the underwear he’s sporting and everything to do with the word _brother._ But as Sam’s fingers skate up and down the frilly front of the panties, that part of him gets drowned out by need.

The need for Sam’s presence and love and acceptance and the need for the warmth and feel of that big, strong body next to his. The need for Sam.

“Sammy,” Dean gasps. He’s bucking up harder now, eager for more, desperate, really, because looking down the line of his body to where his brother is crouched over him, staring rapturously, well, that’s just insanely hot. “More. Please.”

“Yeah, okay,” Sam says, and he tries to wrap his gorilla-sized hand around Dean entirely, but the panties are stretched too tightly. He seems to think that increasing the pressure and speed might help compensate, but it’s not enough. Not remotely enough.

*

Sam’s going to explode. The sight of his brother like this, panting and writhing, the mix of delicate femininity and rough masculinity laid out before him, the sound of panting breath and those fucking pleas, so imploring and impatient…yeah, he’s definitely going to explode.

He’s seen Dean on the edge before, seen him come with his gaze clinging to Sam’s, then seen him come down from orgasm so that he stands ashamed in a dirty alley with a drunk girl on her knees in front of him. He’s seen Dean hide his face as if it would kill him to make eye contact with Sam.

But he’s never seen this, this utter abandon. Sam’s already addicted; he knows he’ll never be able to give this up, and the knowledge that he might not have to makes him edgy. His sense of awe is giving way to a near-violent need to possess. To take.

He uses both hands to push Dean’s thighs wide open, lips twisting at the way Dean throws his head back in response. Sam bends down, running his mouth along the line where ruffle meets warm skin, trailing his lips ever closer to the straining length of Dean’s cock, his hands sliding over bowed legs and back up to the flat belly, palms cupping narrow hips.

“I have to,” he mutters. “I have to, Dean.”

Dean makes an unintelligible sound that doesn’t have even a hint of denial in it, and Sam takes that as agreement. He puts his mouth on his brother.

He licks, he strokes, he lets his teeth drag ever so slightly, and the satin darkens with the moisture from his mouth and the precome from Dean’s cock. He nibbles at the head through the fabric, tasting satin and faint traces of salt and _Dean,_ and then his tongue is dipping back down the shaft to the balls underneath. He nudges with his nose, inhales deeply, unable to get enough, tasting everywhere, and Dean’s absolutely falling apart beneath him, legs kicking and curling up, jostling Sam from his task. So he hunches forward and braces Dean’s thighs apart with his shoulders, then wraps his arms around them, holding his brother open, keeping him spread and available for whatever Sam might want to do, and right now what he wants to do is suck.

He takes the head in as deeply as he can through the cheap fabric, which is straining more and more tightly as Dean gets harder and harder. Dean tosses his head from side to side, his hands knotted in the sheets, but it still isn’t enough. Sam gets rougher, desperate for more than this hint of Dean that he’s getting, and Dean arches beneath him, apparently perfectly fine with Sam completely manhandling his cock and balls to whatever end Sam would like. But the minutes stretch and Sam’s not getting what he wants, and finally, out of sheer frustration, he reaches up with one hand and yanks on the panties, ripping them along one seam and making Dean’s hips jerk wildly.

The panties aren’t completely shredded—the elastic of both leg openings is intact, and the seam along the left hip is still halfway joined, but it’s plenty of space for what Sam has in mind. Dean’s cock springs free and before it’s even done bouncing, Sam’s on it, taking it deep, drawing on it as if it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

He gets his first full taste of Dean and it’s magnificent, rich and clean and masculine and perfect, and Sam buries his nose in the soft thatch of curls at the base, closes his eyes and lets the head enter his throat, moves his tongue in adoring strokes, collecting as much of that bitter precome as he can and swallowing it down.

Dean’s a mess, quivering and jolting and making the sweetest little begging noises. And in between those noises he’s saying, _Sammy, Sammy, please, Sammy._

Sam’s sense of possessiveness goes through the roof. All he wants for the rest of his life is to hear Dean say his name in that broken voice, to have his brother spread out beneath him like this, helpless and desperate and open, to know that he has the right to touch whenever and however he wants because Dean is his. No more of this will they or won’t they shit, no more uncertainty. They don’t ever have to talk about this, never have to say the words that will sully what they are together, because this is a fucking fact as of right now. Dean belongs to Sam, Dean is Sam’s to use and fuck and bite and love and own, and there will be no discussion.

He’s being rough enough now that it has to hurt at least as much as it feels good, but Dean doesn’t seem to mind—on the contrary. The flush on his cheeks has spread down his throat into his chest and he’s biting his lips so hard that when he opens his mouth for a second to take a breath, there’s an indentation in the soft flesh from where his teeth were digging in.

So Sam stops trying to fight the need for total dominance. He sucks hard and fast, his hands like iron on Dean’s thighs, his appetite ravenous, and suddenly even that isn’t enough. He lets go of one leg and pries his fingers back between Dean’s ass cheeks, feeling a bizarre, overwhelming mix of affection and anger at the way Dean’s body flinches. He knows Dean’s never been with a man, knows that this will be the first time anything’s ever entered him, and part of him wants to soothe and promise to go slow, but he’s aroused beyond all control at the idea of being first, and he can’t stop now.

He sucks hard to distract his brother, taking his cock so deeply that when he swallows Dean almost comes off the damn bed, and that’s the moment when Sam drives that finger home. Dean’s cry is a mixture of fear and need and shock, and Sam grins around his mouthful and searches for that spot that will make Dean willing and ready and eager for more.

*

It’s too much, Sam’s finger, dry and piercing and dragging along his insides like sandpaper, but it’s also not enough, the stretch and burn more of a tease than a negative, and his whole body is overloading on confusing sensations as that finger searches inside him. He doesn’t know whether to yank away or curl down into it, and there’s still Sammy’s mouth, his hot, frighteningly talented mouth, damn near sucking Dean’s brain out through his cock with the sheer force and demand.

That finger tunnels deeper and then withdraws entirely. Dean sags back, unsure if he’s relieved, and then the pressure returns, bigger this time and just as piercing, driving in past his clenching muscle and it hurts, fuck it hurts, but in the best possible way and the sound he makes is humiliatingly close to a whine and he wants to pull away, he does, but his balls are drawing up and his cock is jerking in Sammy’s mouth, moving against Sammy’s tongue, which is so soft and knowing, running over him like velvet, and everywhere else on his skin he feels that damned satin, tight and frilly and pretty and all of it’s collecting to make his entire body feel electrified.

Then those fingers inside him touch something that sends fire bursting through his spine, up into his belly, all the way into his head, and he shudders, groaning deeply. The fingers withdraw and return, and the vicious bite of heat returns with it, firing again and again as Sam jabs into him, and the friction is unbearable, the pleasure overwhelming, and Sam’s mouth is unyielding, and in the midst of all of this, Sam’s other hand comes up to cup Dean’s balls through the panties, that thumb running back and forth over the satin, dragging the loose fabric along his skin and that’s it, that’s all she wrote.

Dean comes so hard the world stops spinning, so hard that everything vanishes except for Sam, so hard that his body might very well break in half at the force, and he can’t breathe as it rushes through him, fiery and cruel and beyond anything he’s ever felt.

He almost drops off the second it starts to fade, but he hears Sam’s voice as if from miles away. “Dean. Open your eyes. Look at me, Dean. Now.”

Sammy’s calling. Probably the only thing that could get him to move right now. Dean forces his heavy lids to lift and he finds Sam leaning over him, his cock out and his hand flying over his flesh with enough speed and violence that it looks painful. His jaw is set, teeth clenched, eyes glittering and demanding as they flicker back and forth between Dean’s face and Dean’s still-hard cock, nestled in a bed of pink satin. Sam’s growling something and it takes a second for Dean’s exhausted ears to make sense of the words: _Mine, Dean, you’re mine, and I’m going to make you feel it, make you want it, I’m never letting you go, and you’re not even going to ask me to, are you, because you want this, you want to be spread open beneath me while I suck you and touch you and fuck you with my fingers, you want it, don’t you, don’t you?_

“I want it,” Dean whispers, because he can’t lie to Sammy, not like this, not here, not when his whole body feels at peace, when his mind is telling him _of course this is what you want, it’s always been this way, stupid._

Sam’s brow creases and his lips pull back in a grimace. His eyes beg for reassurance even as they also demand compliance, and Dean sits up slightly, reaches up with both hands, cups his brother’s face and draws him further down. They kiss for the very first time, Sam’s mouth hard against his and it’s sweet, so sweet. Dean’s tongue darts out to taste, wrenching a groan from Sam, and Dean pulls back just enough to whisper, “Come on me, Sammy. Make me yours.”

Sam delivers an unholy groan and his big body jerks wildly and then Dean feels hot come spattering along his cock and belly and there’s something so primitive about it, so _permanent_ about being marked that way that Dean’s body arches into Sam’s with the pleasure of it. He belongs to Sam now in a way that he didn’t before, and as Sam collapses next to him and uses those ridiculously long arms to tug Dean up against him, he goes readily. Sam’s catching his breath, but that doesn’t stop him from reaching down with one hand to rub his come into Dean’s skin and along his softening, oversensitive cock. It’ll be a bitch to clean up, but right now it’s also the best thing Dean can imagine experiencing. He feels loved. He feels owned.

*

Sam wakes up to find Dean sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows propped on his knees, staring at the floor. He’s still wearing the remnants of the destroyed panties and there’s dried come all over him. Sam’s cock gives an interested twitch, but that’s nothing compared to the deep thrum of love he gets in his chest at the sight. Late morning sunshine is spilling in around the edges of the drapes and it paints Dean’s skin in soft gold, highlighting his freckles. He’s blindingly lovely, his expression vulnerable and open and one of his hands is pressed protectively to his belly right above the mess that Sam left on him to show his ownership.

“Should we maybe talk about this?” Dean asks the carpet, tone hesitant, shoulders braced for impact.

“I think I made my point last night,” Sam says, zero doubt in his tone. “So no. There's nothing to talk about, Dean.” He eases his upper body forward slightly, leaning so that he can more clearly see Dean’s face. “Is there?”

It’s not a question.

Dean closes his eyes and exhales, the tension leaking from his back and shoulders, and then a soft, tiny, secret smile tugs at his lips. “No,” he murmurs, sounding young and sweet and relieved all at once. “No, I guess there isn’t.”

“Good.” Sam stretches languorously. Time for a shower, he thinks, up until his stomach growls loudly.

“I think that’s a sign that you’re supposed to get up and grab me some breakfast, bitch,” Dean says, smirking. “Doughnuts, I think. We're not eating anymore of that whole grain crap."

"It's good for you."

"It makes you gassy, dude. That's not good for either of us."

“Rude,” Sam says, grabbing the nearest pillow and winging it at him. Dean dodges neatly, bouncing to his feet, looking rumpled and adorable and ridiculous in those ripped pink panties, and Sam just shakes his head, amused and fond and yeah, a little turned on.

Dean follows his eye and winces slightly at the sight of his cock hanging out, even if his grin doesn’t fade. “Guess these are done for,” he says ruefully. He gives his cock an affectionate little tap, watches it swing like he's proud of it for doing something productive.

“It’s okay,” Sam says, watching the sway of Dean's cock for a moment before he manages to refocus. Right. Food. “We’ll get you another pair. After breakfast. And a shower.”

Dean gives him a suspicious glance, as if he’s anticipating a prank of some sort. As if Sam doesn't have better things to do with his time these days than mix up the salt and sugar. Things that include Dean's ass, for instance. Sam must look smug at the thought, because Dean frowns as he asks, “What are you going to tell the cashier?”

“I don’t know. Who should I say they’re for?” Sam puts a hint of teasing in his tone, but he’s really testing the waters, wondering how Dean will respond. Dean hesitates for a split second, then shrugs.

“Maybe don’t say anything,” he replies sort of dryly, and he sounds okay. There’s no hint of anxiety or regret, anyway.

“You’re all right with that?” Sam asks carefully. "Not saying anything, I mean?" 

“You said it yourself, there’s nothing to talk about.” Dean bends down, gives Sam a hesitant kiss that swiftly grows into something warm and slick and eager, and Sam realizes that he hasn’t given Dean enough credit. There’s one thing that trumps everything else for Dean, that trumps embarrassment and guilt and responsibility and labels like _incest_.

Sam. Dean loves Sam entirely, with his whole heart and body, without reservation, and there’s nothing he won’t offer in order to to keep Sam happy and safe. And if nothing else, last night seems to have convinced him that for once, Sam being happy means Sam’s staying _here._

They’re fine. They’ll always be fine. Sam looks at the dried come on Dean’s stomach. Some things go deeper than words.

Dean pulls back slightly and whispers against Sam’s mouth. “We already know everything we need to.”


End file.
